


The Possum in the Trojan Horse

by CommanderBunnBunn



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: 1x12, Canon-Typical Violence, Cold Open Challenge, Episode Tag, Gen, Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016) Whump, No Blood, Sleep Deprivation, Torture, Waterboarding, Which is a first for me, but not like a lot of it, nothing gory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25062505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderBunnBunn/pseuds/CommanderBunnBunn
Summary: This is my version of how they got to that point in the glorious cold open for episode 1x12, my personal favorite episode opener of all time. We all know Jack didn't show up with a soft fauxhawk and sleep deprivation written all over his face. Well, here's my take.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 28





	The Possum in the Trojan Horse

Jack’s voice wasn’t as loud as it was authoritative and fatherly, “I don't like the idea of you being the bait. Let me be the one that gets captured and you come get me.”

Mac’s argument was weak, but he was determined to reason with the soldier part of Jack that follows orders given by the bosses, “But the plan was to get me inside so I could escape and get the intel we need.”

“Plans change.” Jack was short with his partner, and not backing down. “I know how these guys work, and I couldn't bear the thought of them torturing you.”

“What makes you think it's any better for me if you're the one that's tortured?” Mac went for the throat.

“I can take it. I've trained for this.” Jack mentioned matter of factly. 

Mac waved his hands as he spoke, a grand gesture to express how ridiculous he thought Jack was being, “so you're just going to scrap the entire plan and go with your own?”

“No, not scrapped. Just role reversal. I'll get captured, get the intel, and you come and rescue me, hoss. You've got all the important stuff in that big brain of yours. I don't want torture and trauma from being the prisoner of a terrorist ring to take up any valuable space in your hard drive. Besides, I need you to come rescue me. I get captured and taken to their inner sanctum, piss off some terrorists, and then you come rescue me Boushh style.“

“That was who Leia was impersonating to infiltrate Jabba’s palace to save Han, right?” Mac questioned and Jack answered in the affirmative with a nod. “Ok good, I can still pick up your more obscure Star Wars references; that one was tricky.” 

Jack hooked his elbow around Mac’s neck and pulled him in for a one armed hug, followed by two firm pats on the back, “proud of ya’.” 

“But you don’t really want me to impersonate one of the terrorists to come in and save you, do you? I know Bozer is good with the makeup and prosthetics, but acting is a little out of my wheelhouse.”

“I know, buddy. You do whatever you want or need to do, just come rescue me. You can come in hot like Rambo in a helicopter with machine guns, but that’s not your style. Just do what works for you, you’re good at that.” Jack’s smile reflected his pride and absolute faith in Mac’s abilities.

“So what are you planning to do?”

“I’m gonna pretend to be a spy taking pictures of their buildings and gathering intel. They’ll capture me and ask what I’m up to and I’ll be in. I can find out a lot more from the inside than the outside.”

“But what if they kill you?” 

“They won’t.” Jack smacked his palms on top of his knees before standing up, “I’ll make sure that they think my “agency” doesn’t consider me expendable. Worst case scenario, they’ll use me as leverage or a trade off for the release of one of their guys.”

“I just don’t like it.”

“We don’t have to like it, we just have to do it. Stopping these bastards is the goal, and we're the ones with the chops to do it. We'll put trackers in everything. We'll have an obvious one on my gear, they'll find it and throw it out. One in my shoes, I'm sure I'll get to keep them for a little bit, at least till I'm locked up in one of their facilities. And if those are gone, we'll have one in my ring, my shirt button, pants button, so if they're throwing away my shit, especially if they don't do it all at once, you'll have lots of their locations. Since we only know of this ONE right now, anything additional is a win. What’s a little capture and interrogation if it means we can stop an actual terrorist organization. Think of all the innocent people we could save.”

Mac closed his eyes with an exhale of resignation.

“See, I knew you’d come around.” Jack winked.

*******

Jack crept around the building where he knew their enemies had gathered. He made sure to be stealthy, snapping pictures, staying hidden. He was wearing his TAC vest decked out with recon and surveillance equipment with a Glock strapped to his thigh. As much as it pained him to purposefully be discovered when he knew he could actually do this type of mission in his sleep without being detected, Jack had to make sure to screw up without looking like an amateur. He had to make them think they’d captured someone special.

He heard someone approach him from behind, and it took everything he had to not turn around and gain the upper hand. Jack stopped taking pictures of the building and pretended to listen out for someone approaching. The other man behind him stuck the barrel of a rifle against the nape of Jack’s neck.

“Stand up.” the voice announced with authority.

Jack dropped the camera and stood up slowly with his hands up near his ears. Turning deliberately, he made eye contact with the armed man and inched backward. “Sorry, man, I’m just a dumb tourist taking pictures of the buildings.”

“Dressed like an american soldier?” 

“I just wanted to be intimidating to the other tourists so I didn’t get mugged, dude, I’m wearing jeans.” Jack smiled as his voice went up an octave?

They shared a silent beat before Jack grabbed the muzzle of the rifle and punched his would-be captor in the face. The man fell and dropped his gun. Jack rolled his eyes and thought to himself, _it wasn’t supposed to be this easy to get away. Guess I better fight him some more_. Jack pounced, pinning the other man to the ground and punching him in the face multiple times, hoping to make enough noise for backup to come help their fallen comrade. Upon hearing more people approach and a few weapons cocked, Jack stopped pummeling his opponent and put his hands up interlocking his fingers behind his head. 

On the assumption he’d fight back one approached Jack from the back and another placed a knife at Jack's throat. Jack played coy and tried bargaining, “Hey guys, we can work this out. You can keep my camera, just let me go.” They responded by smashing the butt of a rifle into the back of his skull. Jack fell forward and went limp on top of the guy he’d pinned down, stunned but not knocked out; his captors didn’t need to know that though. 

He was lifted by what felt like two guys, one at each armpit. Jack’s knees dragged the ground for a bit as they took him into the building he had been photographing. When the meaty part of his leg above his knee slammed into the step up into the building, he almost gave his ruse away, but managed to stifle the grunt of pain that tried to escape. 

He concentrated on counting each stair of the stone staircase that they dragged him down, needing the distraction to keep him from reacting to each jarring thud of his boots. Sixteen stairs, right turn, five feet, left turn into doorway. 

Jack was dropped face first in a small room and stripped of his TAC vest and sidearm. He was rolled and searched, giving no resistance like a ragdoll as he was relieved of his belt and pocket contents, as expected.

A heavy door slammed and for several minutes, Jack listened for other people in the room- shoes scuffing, pockets jangling, breathing, Once he was convinced he was alone, he dared to stir. He cracked one eye, groggily adjusting to the light from the lone incandescent bulb dangling from the ceiling. Jack noted the camera and tripod in the corner, _a VHS-C camcorder, how old school. Honestly it was genius, with how trackable digital media was, going analog was a good way to stay hidden. Kudos to you you, terrorists._

He sat up, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. No blood, good. He couldn’t say the same about his surroundings. The floor was a Jackson Pollack of dried blood and charred concrete with a chain bolted to the floor near the center. Now to wait.

Jack scooted across the room to wait for whatever was coming next. He sat with his back against the wall, knees up with his elbows resting on them. Tugging on his sleeve to check the time, he noticed that they had taken his watch. _Dammit_ he had debated giving it to Mac for safe keeping before he left, but didn’t want Mac to see it as Jack handing it over as an act of bequeathing. He honestly just wanted to make sure he got it back when they finished the mission, but Mac was already not keen on the idea of Jack getting captured, so Jack didn’t want to give the kid anything more to fret over. 

A scraping outside the door told Jack he was about to have company. Two men entered, one with his gun trained on Jack flanked by the other carrying a rusted metal folding chair and rope.

“Hey fellas.” Jack smiled, but got no response in return. The lower level lackeys were no fun, trying to make a name for themselves. He saw them as the B squad for the Three Stooges, the less funny fill-ins. This was Shemp and Joe.

The chair was unfolded and placed in the center of the room, Shemp indicated with his gun for Jack to move to the chair. 

“I’ll pass, thanks.” Jack waved his hand in acknowledgment of the request. “The wall here is keepin’ my back in line, don’t wanna be sore in the morning.”

Two sets of eyes narrowed at him and the muzzle of the gun was pointed toward his head. 

“Okay, ok.” He stood with a groan, hand on his lower back, letting his significantly younger captors go ahead and assume he’s clearly outmatched by their youth. The ruse works two fold- it tells the foot soldiers of the terrorist organization that he’s old and therefore less of a threat, but lets the brains of the organization know he’s experienced and probably an asset to his agency. 

His hands were wrenched behind his back and tied tightly at his wrists as he sat in the chair. Then his ankles were shackled with the chains bolted to the floor. Shemp let his rifle fall to his side by the shoulder strap as he approached the camcorder to set it up.

“You might need to fix the lighting in here, this is my good side." He flashed a smolder and then blue steel at the camera, but his captors weren't amused. "Tough crowd." Jack muttered and slouched into the chair. More ropes were wrapped around his chest and pulled taut, securing him to the chair. “Not so tight, show a little hospitality to your guest.” The ropes were pulled tighter and he grunted. 

The red record light was illuminated on the camcorder and Jack shut up. 

“What is your name and who do you work for?” Shemp, manning the camera, asked.

Jack said nothing, he didn’t move or blink or even acknowledge that a question was asked. He stared straight into the camera with an unwavering sternness. 

The cameraman asked again, “what is your name and who do you work for?”

Jack continued to stare down the camera.

The voice was angrier this time. “What is your name and who do you work for?”

Silence. And then Jack felt the cattle prod in the small of his back where his shirt had ridden up in the chair. He still didn’t flinch. Nerves of steel.

The cameraman left the room and returned with someone new, probably someone in a higher position of authority, but barely. This man asked the same question. Cattle prod. He asked again. And again. Jack didn’t back down. 

They seemed to have given up, but the camera was still rolling. Jack wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen next, but he knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. The most recent addition to the terrorist trio approached Jack slowly and stood directly in front of him two feet away. Jack held his breath in anticipation of what was coming, but didn’t falter. His new friend kicked him square in the stomach with the bottom of his boot. The chair tipped back on two legs, the chains tethering Jack’s ankles to the ground prevented him from falling backward. 

The wind was knocked out of him, but he regained his composure quickly. The second kick was a little harder. He suppressed the vomit that came up and immediately regretted it. He decided it was time to “crack” for them.

“Ok, I give. Don’t do that again.” Jack panted, followed by a cough punctuated by the burn of stomach acid. He cringed.

“What is your name?” The cameraman asked.

“Lieutenant John McClane.” Jack admitted breathlessly. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Stopping terrorists.”

“Who do you work for?”

“The NYPD.” A sly grin crept up his lips. 

The three foot soldiers exchanged looks. The recording was stopped and all three left with the tape.

 _That was too easy._ Jack thought to himself. _Did they really believe that? Maybe if they’d actually experienced good cinema, they wouldn’t be impotent wannabe terrorists. Do I need to update my pop culture references to the current century? Nah. Yippee-ki-yay, mother fucker._

Jack sat alone in the room, the lack of ambient noise had become unnerving. He yelled hoping his captors were listening, “Hey, I’d like to complain about my accomodations. Where’s your boss? Mister Omar Po-something Puh-somethng. Um, Mister O.P.P.” he snickered and burst into song. “YOU DOWN WITH O.P.P.” his voice went quieter and higher as if he were answering his own callout, “yeah you know me.” Louder again, “YOU DOWN WITH O.P.P. Yeah you know me. YOU DOWN WITH O.P.P. Yeah you know me.” He heard someone at the door and finished his chorus, “YOU DOWN WITH O.P.P. Every last homie.” 

His satisfied smile was met with rage when Shemp the cameraman entered the room again followed by the Joe that tied him up. Jack did not expect the plastic bag they pulled over his head. He squirmed and struggled as much as he could in his restraints, only resulting in someone tightening the bag’s opening around his neck until he lost his fight with unconsciousness.

*****

Mac kept an eye on the building from a distance and Riley kept watch from the sky as best she could. When mac noticed increased activity going in and out, he made a phone call.

"Riley, there's more activity going on here. You still have eyes from the satellites?"

"Yeah, Mac. And have I told you how much I don't like this plan?" Riley's voice sounded agitated. 

"Yes, about a dozen times today. Keep an eye on the maroon truck for me, please. And let me know if any of Jack's trackers move." Mac saw the red truck pull up about 15 minutes prior, then another white one a few minutes later. The drivers remained in the vehicles the entire time and Mac was sure they were going to leave soon.

"I _know_ , Mac. I'm as worried as you are, but I'm not inept. I've been refreshing the tracker locations every 2 minutes when I know damn well that they refresh themselves. I just have a bad feeling."

One man carrying an armload of gear tossed it into the back of a white pickup with a covered bed. He quickly covered what he'd dumped and went back inside. He came out moments later with another man, they were both carrying something larger, person sized, wrapped in a cloth tarp. They tossed it into the bed of the red truck, one guy hopped into the bed with it, and both vehicles took off. 

"Mac, I've got movement!" Riley blurted excitedly. 

"Alright, keep me updated on where they go."

"Ok the dummy tracker on the TAC vest isn't moving, but the rest are." She paused a moment, "it looks like the one in the Glock magazine is splitting off from the ones in Jack's clothes."

"I want to follow the clothes, but I'll stay a few miles behind, so guide me on where to go, ok Riles?"

"Yeah, I got it." She replied nervously. "Be careful."

The red truck stopped at a suspiciously fortified home in the middle of nowhere half an hour later. Someone came out of the house to greet the truck and helped unroll the prisoner in the tarp. They dragged him by the armpits into the house, and Riley watched it all in horror on a grainy satellite image.

*****

Jack awoke in a different place, secured to table this time instead of a chair and even more immobile than before. His ankles were strapped down to the table and his wrists were bound together over his head so that his elbows bent over the top of the table and were secured underneath it. There was a wide strap over his chest that stretched all the way across the four foot wide table.

He had a bad feeling about the table's intended purpose, but it wasn't time to let his facade crack. He lifted his head to get a look around, the room was similar to the previous one, no windows, minimal lighting, and an old camcorder; the differences being the table and the unused spotlight in the corner making the setting even more unnerving. His only comfort was the knowledge that his kids had their eyes on him from afar and were safe.

He counted the 4x4 beams that traversed the ceiling perpendicular to the way he was lying on the table. There were only five and they were evenly spaced except the one closest to the door. It bothered him that they weren't even. To pass the time he visually estimated the space between beams and divided it so they would be even before imagining what it would look like if they were properly spaced. He thought of the conversion from inches to centimeters and smiled at the thought of Mac and his preference for the imperial measurements. Those discussions usually brought out many Star Wars references and inevitable humming of the _Imperial March_. 

Of course Jack started humming the _Imperial March_ and decided it was time to let his captors know he was awake. His hum turned into words. "Dun dun dun, dunt di dun dun di dun," growing louder with each verse. 

By the time he was yelling his song, someone came crashing through the door. 

Jack lifted his head to get a peek at his visitor, "You're not Darth Vader!" he yelled with disgust and let his head fall back to the table with a disappointed thud. 

"Who are you and who do you work for?" 

Jack decided to ignore the question. It was asked and ignored again.

The man approached the table and leaned over Jack to make eye contact and assert his dominance. Jack responded with a flirty wink. 

With a loud grumble Jack's visitor stepped out of view. He heard a click and felt the strap across his chest go taut. Another click and it was tighter. The bastard was slowly ratcheting the strap, crushing Jack's chest between the strap and table. 

Jack broke his silence, "ok ok, stop! My nipples are sensitive."

"Who are you and who do you work for?"

Jack thought for a moment and responded confidently, "I forgot."

Two more clicks of the strap and Jack had difficulty taking in a good breath. Another click and he would likely crack a rib. 

Panting, Jack confessed, "can't tell you if I can't breathe." And the strap slackened a bit, but was still holding him firmly in place.

"Who are you?" 

Jack took a deep grateful breath and spat out, "General Han Solo, smuggler, scoundrel, and captain of the Millennium Falcon."

Obviously not the answer they were looking for, Jack's visitor left. 

"Fellas! I'm sorry! Come back, I'm so lonely." Jack whined. "Fellas?" With no response, he decided it was time to serenade his captors once again with more indelible 20th century hits. "So, fellas? _yeah!_ Fellas? _yeah!_ Has your girlfriend got the butt? _hell yeah!_ Tell 'em to shake it _shake it_ shake it _shake it!_ Shake that healthy butt. Baby got back." As he was vocalizing his record scratch solo, a new visitor walked in. 

Jack didn't miss a beat, picking up the lyrics in time, "I like 'em round, and big; and when I'm throwin' a gig, I just can't help myself, I'm actin' like an animal. Now here's my scandal; I want to get you home and _ungh_ " he did his best attempt at a hip thrust under his restraints, then the chest strap was tightened several clicks, taking his breath away.

His newest visitor had an indistinguishable accent, clearly recruited from abroad. "Hard to be funny when you can't breathe."

"Yep." Jack agreed through a gasp. The four inch wide...just a smidge over 10 centimeters if you're Darth Vader...strap definitely cracked a rib with the next click. He suppressed a cry of pain through gritted teeth.

Wisely, Jack chose to go back to uncooperative silence with his captors. He was questioned repeatedly and they were stonewalled. Their next task was to break him. Jack's task was to resist until he got face time with the man in charge of their organization. 

Jack was strong willed...and strong. He would be a tough man to break. 

******

Riley and Mac chose a spot for Mac to hide surveillance equipment based on the terrain and visibility of the compound. Undetected, he planted a long distance listening device near the house and a couple of cameras to watch the comings and goings from the front. This place had definitely not been on their radar yet. Once they had a visual on Omar, the leader of this particular growing terror group, a Phoenix team would be dispatched to raid the compound. At this point, at the very least, Jack succeeded in discovering one of the terror cell's hideouts. 

Riley and Mac monitored the audio and video together while on 2 separate continents. Of course two additional agents were also combing through the footage as well just in case something was missed. Mac was holed up in a youth hostel, watching the feed on his phone like a disinterested young traveler-headphones on, occupying a corner, backpack between his legs. 

Jack had been somewhere inside that location for over 14 hours, and their only eyes and ears had been on the outside. They watched a small handful of people and vehicles come and go. More terrorists photographed and cataloged, more notches in the win column. They still hadn't seen the head of the organization that they sought out and worst of all, they had no idea of Jack's status. Until hour 15. 

Mac had finally resigned to taking a nap at Riley's insistence. The compound was dark, and no one had entered nor exited in three hours. By their count there were at least five inside that they'd seen and it was unknown how many were already inside when they set up their surveillance. Mac was startled from his light sleep by the blaring of an air horn from the audio at the compound. 

"He's alive!" Mac exclaimed and quickly shushed himself at the behest of his sleeping bunkmates. 

"What?" Riley responded over their two way communication. 

"Jack. He's alive and probably ok."

Riley was ecstatic over the news, but also puzzled. "So that horn thing, that's another Mac and Jack secret code? Like two beeps means order a pizza with olives and Canadian bacon, one beep means I'm alive and ok."

"Not exactly." Mac backpedaled. "The horn isn't Jack, it's them. They're trying to keep him awake. Sleep deprivation. They're interrogating him and he's not budging, just like he'd planned." Mac was beaming with fondness and pride. "It's actually working. He's holding out for the big guns, and they find him valuable enough that they just might do that." 

~~~~~~

The siren in the corner of the room behind Jack's head blared for the tenth time, just when he thought his ears had finally stopped ringing. "Hey! Come on" he complained loudly to the empty room. "I wasn't even nodding off that time, now you're just being dicks. I mean the last dozen or so were valid because I was totally snoring, but this is just not cool." 

The horn blared again, its sporadic wailing had no rhyme or reason, and it startled him every time. Now someone was just messing with him. It would be very un-Jack-like to show his unease and discomfort, so he played along. He was ready for the next horn screech. 

He waited. Counted the seconds since the last horn. The previous two had been in pretty quick succession, so he thought the next would be soon. Soon ended up being 605 seconds later. His smile lit up when he heard it and he mimicked its wail over and over again in time to an old song from his high school days. 

"Pack it up, pack it in, let me begin. I came to win, battle me that's a sin. I won't ever slack up, punk you better back up. Try and play the role and yo the whole crew'll act up. Get up, stand up c'mon throw your hands up." He stopped for a moment, forgetting the words. Tired and a little dazed, probably concussed, his entire body was sore and cramping from staying in the same position for so long. 

Jack rolled right into the chorus with no regard for the verses he forgot. "Jump around! Jump around! Jump around! Jump up, jump up and get down! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Everybody jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!" He repeated the hook at least a dozen times entertaining himself and wiggling his hips with the beat before he began to doze off. 

Jack wasn't exactly sure how much time had passed since he'd been brought to the secondary location or how long he'd been stuck to that table, but he was sore and exhausted and on edge. He'd had a good close shave before "getting captured" specifically so he could use beard growth to gauge the passage of time presuming there would be no clocks or windows in his cell. Fairly certain he was getting close to the 24 hour mark, Jack had had nothing to drink or eat. He had four days to find his mark, if Omar hadn’t shown his face by the end of the 4th day, the Phoenix would come in for the rescue and infiltrate the locations they had uncovered up to that point and rescue Jack.

The siren continued to blare when Jack nodded off and then periodically for good measure. After the sun came up, which Jack wasn’t aware of, but it had surely been a good 36 hours since he was captured, he was greeted by three new people. 

Punch drunk and delirious, Jack greeted his new torturers, “Good morning, sunshine! Are y’all here to let me go? I’ve really got to pee.” He gave them a moment to reply, but they stayed quiet. “Hmm, nothing to say, huh? Well two can play at that game. Or four because there are three of you Stooges and one of me and I can do math. Why do you need three people, I’m obviously not a threat. Unless you’re scared. You probably should be.” His tone went from silly to ominous, he was done playing. 

One of the other guys, or “Moe” to Jack, spoke up, “Who are you and who do you work for?”

Jack remained stoic and silent. 

“Last chance. Who are you and who do you work for?”

Jack didn’t intend to answer them, but they didn’t give him a chance to anyway before the man near his feet, “Curly”, released something under the table and it tipped down slightly, resting at an angle where Jack could see the door and the camera without lifting his neck. The camera was rolling, something bad was about to happen and he had a good idea what it was going to be. 

There were two long slits cut into the wooden table on either side of Jack’s head, he’d felt a draft occasionally, which had been a relief because his biceps pressed against his ears had caused some excessive sweating in a place he wasn’t used to sweating like that. Now that the holes were about to be used for their intended purpose, he was no longer happy they were there. 

“Larry” standing above his head draped a towel over Jack’s face and dropped the ends through the slits on the table and pulled them together. As soon as the towel was tight enough to make breathing uncomfortable, Moe poured water over it. Jack sputtered and roared, trying his best to keep the water out, but it very quickly became suffocating. He gagged and gasped. 

He was rocketed back to Lake Como; Jack had dove in to search for Mac immediately after coming to. Concussed and bleeding, the shock of hitting the cold water stunned him and he couldn’t tell which direction in the murky darkness was up. No matter which way he swam, he felt like he was going deeper. He spotted Mac’s white shirt and tried to go that direction, but his body refused to cooperate with his brain to swim.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t find his way to the surface, and then it stopped. The towel was pulled away and he sucked in as much air as his aching chest could before the third guy ratcheted the strap across his ribs one more click. He couldn’t get in enough air to expel the invading water with a cough. His breaths came in short choking gasps until his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness.

Larry slapped Moe upside the head, then released the hook holding Jack’s hands above his head, “you went too hard, we are trying to get information.” Moe muttered something unintelligible and unhooked the ratchet strap at Jack’s chest while Curly unshackled one of his ankles before rolling him over onto his left side. Larry jabbed a syringe into the the exposed flesh near Jack’s hip. Moments later, Jack grumbled and curled in on himself before he began coughing. 

For a moment he contemplated trying to escape, but it was not part of the plan, and if he pissed these guys off too much by getting in a few well placed punches, they could make his life much more miserable. Stubborn silence would have to do. When he appeared to be finished hacking water from his lungs, the ropes binding his wrists were pulled back above his head and latched under the table. 

He was rolled back onto his back without a fight, giving no resistance to the restraints being fastened. His head lolled to the side, eyes closed. He was surprisingly alert and lucid despite his forced sleep deprivation. His muscles were cramping, the charlie horse in his calf pulled so hard it felt like it was going to snap, but he kept his face lax and breathed through it. 

His back and hips were locked up in the most uncomfortable way, which was probably better than the numbness he had in his hands. Knowing there was no chance of relief for any of the aches and muscle spasms, he had to focus on something else, go someplace else. 

If there was anything he had absolute faith in, it was his kids. He knew that no matter what, they’d be there to pull him out of the fire when the time came. Jack doing this meant that they didn’t have to. Jack could endure anything if it meant his kids were safe, and that alone could keep him going, even past the limits of anyone’s expectations. 

At least they didn’t tighten the chest strap again.

The amphetamines kicked in and his brain was buzzing. His eyes popped open and his stoic and silent plan was tossed out the window. “Oh maaaaan. You know what I want right now? I want a foot massage and a Slurpee. It’s kinda hot in here. And Deadpool likes Slurpees and I like Deadpool. I think we could totally be best friends.” 

“What is your name?” Moe asked.

“If you let me outta here, I’ll tell ya’ what you want to know.” 

“You’re not in any position to try to bargain.” 

“But I have information and you want information. I think I hold all the cards.”

That comment didn’t sit well with them and the cloth was thrown over his face again and held more tightly and for longer than the previous time. “Fuck!”, he roared and spit when it was over, coughing out what he could. His rage and energy were bubbling over. “Fuuuuck!” He screamed again. 

The veins in his neck and forehead bulged as water dripped down his face and his shirt clung to his chest. “That all you got? I could do this all day.”

Sensing the futility of torturing for information at that moment, they left the room and left Jack alone again. He opened and closed his fists repeatedly, trying to get some feeling back, he was fairly certain his feet were numb too, but couldn’t really tell. He could wiggle his toes inside his boots, but wasn’t sure whether he could feel them or not. He wasn’t sure anymore which sensations were real and which were figments of his imagination. 

His shirt was wet and sticking to him, but it was hot in the room so the wetness in the stuffy room made him feel even worse when he couldn’t pull it away from his skin. His movements were so limited that the muscle spasms seemed to go on forever and it was as if they were communicating. Once one stopped aching, another started, but there was also overlap. Jack was awake, exhausted, and in pain. Even without the tight strap across his chest, he still couldn’t pull in a breath as deep as he’d wanted. He was sure he was in his third day of captivity, at least definitely past the halfway point, so that light at the end of the tunnel kept him going. 

The drugs in his system made him even more anxious to move around but couldn’t. Tiny bursts of panic began to pop in his mind. He began to shake and his breathing quickened. He could feel himself slipping. Jack tried to concentrate on his kids faces, stop thinking about his body and his physical constraints. He pictured Mac and RIley doing what they were probably doing at the time, watching and waiting. He pictured Mac sitting under a tree with binoculars dangling around his neck, waiting, bending paperclips into the letters of the chemical symbols and making a periodic table in the dirt. He’d definitely have time to do that, and it was totally on brand for Mac in Jack’s mind. 

Riley joined Mac in Jack’s mind, carrying two ice cold bottles of beer. It looked so refreshing that Jack could taste it. She sat down cross legged next to him before she pulled his knife from his breast pocket and opened the bottles. They clinked a toast and drank. She examined his work on the ground, and asked, “hey, why aren’t there any letter Js in the periodic table?”

Mac answered, “because Jack Dalton didn’t discover any new elements.”

Riley laughed, “and if he did, he’d probably name it Awesomium or something.” 

“Would the chemical symbol be Aw or Jd?” Mac asked as he straightened a new paperclip.

“Jd for sure. Add some flare.” she leaned against the tree next to Mac and sipped her beer, belching in an undignified manner. _That’s my girl._ Jack thought. 

Two CO2 canister discharge sounds from a tranq gun followed by RIley falling into Mac’s lap and him falling over her shook Jack’s fantasy. They were picked up by Shemp and Joe with Omar overseeing the abduction. Jack watched, a helpless omniscient observer, as the thin metal twisted into his initials bounced across the dirt periodic table and his kids were carried away over the shoulders of his enemies. 

His own scream snapped him out of his dreadful nightmare. Relief that it was only in his head was short lived as he was brought back to the reality of his own situation. Muscles on fire, the need to move, and overwhelming panic took over all the logic in his head. Jack was back to hyperventilating punctuated by a scream of terror. He couldn’t crack yet. Every attempt to reel it in was a failure. 

Finally he told himself, _one more day. Just one more day. His kids were safe, they were coming in one day._ His breathing slowed, he ignored the twinges in his legs and back, he almost had a hold on his emotions again. _But what if they weren’t? What if they were captured?_

Panic and bile rose up again. He needed to grab hold of logic and reason out in his head why that was ridiculous. It was his job as a parent to worry and to anticipate bad things to happen to keep them safe. That’s how they were trained. They were trained well, he taught them how to stay alive. They showed him how to be alive. _They were safe. They were coming. One more day._

He was back down the earth, scrolling his massive library of songs to think about to pass the time and entertain himself, keep his mind off his situation. Thoughts he was having were about dying and pain, sparking songs about mortality and more pain. He didn’t want to think about that, he wasn’t going to die, at least not today. _At least not today._ The words were melodic in his head, a suitable song. A fun one to sing.

Jack cackled and belted as loudly as he could, “So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by. Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger. I heard you say.” Music as a coping mechanism had been a cornerstone of Jack’s personality for decades, lately he’d used it to distract or amuse others. There goes Jack, always singing. Singing with the radio, singing anytime a song fits a situation, singing when he’s being tortured, singing to help his kids work through something. 

He belted out an extensive chunk of his oasis library before his voice got hoarse. The drugs were finally wearing off, and he felt more in control and adequately prepared and psyched out for whatever they had planned for him next. 

Three Stooges entered again. The luxury of knowing that no matter how many times they waterboarded him, there was still a timetable for his rescue kept him going. He held onto that hope as tightly as he could as the cloth came across his face again. It was difficult to think about anything else but drowning, but he managed to stay mostly in control. Jack coughed and screamed as the torture continued. 

After the fifth round, they were sure they’d broken him. Jack stared at the ceiling, glassy eyed and compliant, with no spark or smile left. No more cracking jokes or making up silly names for his captors. 

“What is your name, and who do you work for?” Moe asked. Jack didn’t even acknowledge the question or the fact that he was spoken to, eyes fixated on nothing in particular, he didn’t blink or flinch. Larry unhooked his wrists from under the table and Curly guided his arms down and secured the chest strap across Jack’s chest and arms, pulling it tight enough to contain him, but not hinder his breathing. As his wrists were still bound, they weren’t worried about him putting up much of a fight.

The table angled up a few more degrees upright, and Moe asked again. “What’s your name and who do you work for?” Lack of any response garnered a slap across Jack’s face.

Jack’s head whipped to the side with the slap, but he still didn’t answer or even blink. 

“If you don’t tell me, we will kill you right now.” 

Jack cleared his throat lightly, words coming out weakly and wet. “I’ve lived over twenty-two hundred Thursdays. I’m going to make it through this one too.” 

“Then you will cooperate? What is your name?”

Jack hesitated a moment and spoke up, “Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett, United States Navy Seal.”

The Stooges exchanged looks of accomplishment and left the room. 

“Sorry. Steve. I know better than to take your name in vane.” Jack smiled and finally had a chance to rest. He closed his eyes and slept immediately.  
Jack wasn’t sure how long his nap lasted, but it felt like a long time. Two angry henchmen burst through the door armed. 

“Where’s Larry?” Jack asked, but no one answered him so he changed his line of questioning. “Did you find Steve?” he raised his eyebrows in anticipation. “Was he mad?” he cocked an eyebrow with a satisfied smirk. 

The butt of a rifle crashed into the side of Jack’s head and he went quiet. They unlatched his ankles and removed the chest strap. A burlap sack was pulled over his head before they pulled him to his feet. His atrophied muscles refused to hold him up and he hit the ground. They yanked him up by his arms and helped him stumble across the room. He had no feeling or sensation in his legs, and they would not cooperate. His boots dragged and shuffled across the ground, but the two men carrying him did most of the work. 

Larry was waiting in a car out front, and the other henchmen shoved him into the back seat and hopped in the car themselves. 

******

The original video they’d taken of Jack was disseminated to various other shady groups in an attempt to identify him. Omar received a message from someone offering a million dollar payout for this subject alive, but refused to identify him. Their crude networking was not privy or crackable by any government agencies. They were purely analog and the inner circle impossible to infiltrate. The fact that his prisoner was wanted by another terrorist was very intriguing, it was time to meet in person and find out who this guy was and why Tiberius Kovacs was willing to come out of hiding to get his hands on him.

******

Despite being grateful that Jack was finally able to move, he was sore all over. The muscle cramps and charlie horses that plagued him the previous day were stiff and sore. His legs were wobbly and unsure, combined with his overall weakness and dehydration, he wasn’t moving very steadily. Once the car finally stopped, he was pulled out and led into a building. He tripped and stumbled, breaking his falls with his bound wrists. Going down the stairs, Jack lost his footing and made sure to take one of his captors down with him. It was only the last five stairs, but it was satisfying to drag one of the stooges down too.

“Watch out!” one of them grumbled as he whacked Jack across the back with the rifle.

“Well maybe if I didn’t have a bag over my head, I could see somethin’” Jack argued. 

The bag was yanked from his head and he blinked several times to clear his vision. He sat back on his heels and leaned against the wall to get to his feet, grabbing a handful of dirt from the ground first. They walked behind him, giving directions with the barrel of a gun pressed into his back. He was led down a long hallway and into a room and commanded to sit in a chair.

Jack complied. Larry untied his bound wrists, and Jack massaged one with his empty hand. Larry snatched that hand away and tied it to the arm of the chair. Jack tossed his handful of dirt right into Larry’s face.

All three were furious and pointed their guns at him again. He knew at that point that he was definitely not supposed to be killed by these chumps, so he felt safe antagonizing them a little. 

“Oh I must have slipped, excuse me.” Jack apologized with no sincerity whatsoever.

Larry tied Jack’s other wrist to the chair and started to tie his left ankle to the chair leg. Jack kicked up some dirt with his free boot. 

“Oh shit, muscle spasm. I guess it was from being tied up for so long. I’m sorry man.” Jack couldn’t help but smile until the rope was tied so tight he thought he’d lose feeling in his feet.

After all of Jack’s limbs were secured, Curly left the room for a minute and returned with a cardboard box. He pulled an IV pole out of the corner of the room and placed it behind the chair. 

“The hell, man? You gonna harvest my kidneys?” Jack asked, offended. Curly didn’t answer him, but he pulled out an alcohol swab and cleaned the dirt off of Jack’s wrist before putting in an IV. “Aw, you’re getting me hydrated after depriving me of water and food for nearly four days, how thoughtful. So you’re freshening up my kidneys before you steal them? Smart move.” Jack complimented. “I like you, man. You’re a nice terrorist.” He smiled at Curly who didn’t smile back.

The tubing was taped down and a bag hung from the pole. Jack shuddered through his entire body, “ooh that’s cold.” Something was injected into the port and Jack tried to react. His words were unintelligible and his chin fell to his chest.

“Too much.” Curly apologized to his teammates. He lifted Jack’s head and checked his pulse and breathing, then he poked Jack in the eye with his finger to make sure he wasn’t faking. “Five minutes and we’ll try again.” 

Two minutes was as long as Moe lasted before he became impatient. He put the cattle prod to the small of Jack’s back and let it buzz for at least five seconds. 

Jack groaned and mumbled. His head weakly nodded side to side in protest and he was back out again. Curly suggested, “It’s going to take a little longer than that, let’s go wait for the boss out there instead of watching this old man’s beard grow.” 

******

The three TAC teams were mobilized near the three locations Jack had been held. Movement to an innocuous new location on the 4th day was helpful to the Phoenix, not for intel, but because the city had a lot more hackable cameras and a lot better view for Riley. She watched the car with Jack in it pull up to the abandoned building. His face was covered, but those were his jeans and his shirt for sure. A half hour later, another car pulled up. They identified and cataloged the driver, but more importantly, they identified the man in the back seat, Omar himself. Visual identification of the target meant time to strike.

Mac announced over coms that he was going in first, before the strike team was ready. Thornton objected, but Mac insisted.

“Jack told me himself that if they thought they were being raided, that he’d be killed immediately. Let me go in and get him alone first. I told Jack that was what I’d do, and that is what is going to happen.”

“Stand down, MacGyver.” Thornton ordered in his earpiece. 

“No.”

“This wasn’t part of the plan that you and Jack presented to us. The plan we agreed to.” Thornton argued authoritatively.

“I know it wasn’t because you’d never agree to it. So we decided to keep that part to ourselves.” Mac was already on the move, headed to the city where Jack was being held.  
.  
“MacGyver, don’t. We have three heavily armed teams to do this.” 

“Right, and this is a job for one guy with a knife and a best friend being held captive by a terrorist. I’m going in alone. Have the plane ready, I’m going to go get Jack.” He pulled his com out of his ear and shoved it into his pocket.

*****

When Curly and Moe returned to the room, Jack was more or less awake. He blew raspberries and stuck out his tongue at them. Then he laughed at himself. “You know what?” Jack asked and waited for an answer that never came. He forgot for a moment what he was going to say and remembered. “Oh yea, ok.” he recalled out loud. “When my people show up to save me, you’re gonna be locked away in a hole where no one will ever find you or even know you ever existed.” 

“Is that so?” Moe asked. “It doesn’t look like you’re getting out of here.”

“Yep, Princess Leia is coming to rescue me. And you’ll wish you were never born. You’ll learn why it was a bad idea to mess with Han Solo.” Jack confessed as Curly checked the IV and injected a much smaller dose. “And then I’ll find out where they’re holding you terrorist pieces of shit and sneak in one night and put a bullet between your eyes. You won’t see me comin’. And you’ll spend every night wondering, ‘is this the night Han’s gonna kill me?’ but you’ll never know.”

Curly spoke, “I didn’t think that was allowed in the United States.”

Jack shrugged. “You’ve been good to me, Curly.” Jack tried to pull his hand up to pat the terrorist on the shoulder but remembered he was restrained. Curly gave a puzzled look wondering who exactly he was referring to. “You’ll be ok, I was talkin ‘bout that asshole Moe.” 

Curly pointed his finger at his own chest and sought clarification, “you’re going to kill me yourself?”

Jack answered him, “No, not you, the bowlegged one.” Jack immediately gasped in excitement, “that reminds me of a song!” 

“He’s ready.” Curly nodded to his accomplice, and they left the room to inform their leader.

xxxxxx

Jack held tightly to Mac and they hobbled to the jet’s staircase. Jack held tightly to the rails with both hands and Mac walked up behind him with his arms ready to catch him if Jack lost his balance. Mac guided him to the long sofa and eased Jack onto his side. He eagerly covered Jack in a blanket and stuffed a small pillow under his head, mimicking how quick Jack always was to do the same for him. 

“Thank you. Thanks for saving me. Can I have a hug?”

Mac smiled, “Jack, you got a dozen hugs on the way here.”

“But I missed you, hoss. I want to snuggle.”

Mac’s eyebrow went up, “sorry big guy, that couch is made for one.”

Jack pulled a face and frowned, offended. “It’s because I stink.”

“That only a small part of it. Two people can’t lie down on that seat, it’s not physically possible.”

“And I know not to argue with you about physics.” jack pouted. 

“Right. Just go to sleep and we’ll get you cleaned up and checked out back home.”

“I know it’s because I stink. I can smell it. And it’s gross. It’s like a wet dog with b.o. wearing sweaty gym socks." Jack whined. "Do you have a lemon?”

“Come again?”

“I want a lemon. I wanna smell it. Smells fresh. Like a baby in a clean kitchen...and Mac. I missed you so much, I'm so glad you came for me.”

“Let me check on that lemon. And I told you I'd come for you.” Mac wasn't sure if Jack said he smelled like lemons or if he was just telling him he missed him. He opened the tiny refrigerator at the minibar and was glad to find a lemon and a lime. He handed the lemon to Jack.

"I knew you'd never let me down." Jack was almost in tears; he pulled the lemon under the blanket with him and sniffed it, “it doesn’t smell like anything.” He handed it back to Mac with the eyes of a disappointed child. “Zest it so I can smell it. But don’t cut it because I don’t wanna make a mess with the juice. I missed you so much, man.”

“Ok.” Mac laughed and used his knife to scrape some zest off a good portion of the lemon. “Better?” He asked as he handed it back to Jack.

Jack held the lemon with both hands up to his face and inhaled with the most satisfied look of euphoria, falling immediately into a peaceful slumber.

"I missed you too." Mac whispered as he brushed his fingers fondly through Jack's hair. 


End file.
